“I hear, my father,” je‑Sou’tsian said, “and I witness. And I obey even to the price of my life.”

“So be it,” Chauvelin said, and laid the rolled paper ceremoniously on the table. “Now.” He paused, sorting out what needed to be done. “I want you to proclaim this to the household. Take a couple of our security people with you, just in case.”

“I don’t think the Visiting Speaker’s household will cause any trouble,” je‑Sou’tsian said. “Not all of them are fond of him.”

Chauvelin smiled. “I can’t say I blame them. All right, do what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil–also for anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that, as well, highest priority.”

“Yes, Sia.” Je‑Sou’tsian paused, seemed about to say something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji‑Imbaoa– when I find them, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the consequences if he did not–he would have the tools he needed to act. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome’s outline of Damian Chrestil’s plan. From time to time she glanced at it, comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images she wanted after some trouble–Damian Chrestil’s face, a news scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party–and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the Face/Bodyprogram. The program considered them and produced a string of numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and smiled at the result. The images attached to the character templates were not–quite–the original faces, but they were close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. In some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be played, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a neat, red‑branched tree in front of her eyes. Damian Chrestil’s plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it’s only made for blackmail.

“No luck finding guns.”

Roscha’s voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal link, said to Roscha, “Then there’s nothing?”

“Not quite nothing,” Roscha said with a lopsided grin, and slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. “This is mine. On the other hand, it’s only six shots, and it’s not supposed to be reloadable. I’ve had it modified, and I’ve got another magazine, but I don’t know how well it will work.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said.

“What are you doing?” Roscha asked. She was frowning at the control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the carefully focused images.

“My–our–way out,” Lioe said. I hope. “I’ve pulled together a Game scenario, merchant‑adventurers variant, a jeu a clef. I’ve put this whole situation into a Game–and used their faces–and I’m going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I’m going to let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours–in fact, I think I’ll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it–and it will be sent on the internets as well. He’ll never get rid of it, and he should have a hard time explaining why it fits what’s been going on so extremely closely.”

“He will be pissed,” Roscha said.

She didn’t sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply at her. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “Look, I don’t want to get you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won’t mention you.”

Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. “No. I’m not leaving. Who’d watch the door? Anyway, the storm’s pretty bad.”

“Not that bad,” Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads were still open.

“I don’t want to take the bike, and I’m not leaving it,” Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. “I don’t want to leave, Quinn. Don’t worry about me.”

Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. “I’m trusting you,” she said.

Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street sounds–rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the street–that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net. “I’ve rigged the intercom,” Roscha said. “At least that way we can hear them coming.”

If they come in the front door, Lioe thought. “Great,” she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to corkscrew them open. At least, they were impervious on Callixte. She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a new set of tools. Ransome’s gloves were warm against her hands, the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement.

She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel the nonsense run in three hours and fifty‑seven minutes. Three minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear, tidied away by the net’s housekeeper routines. At last she finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron, each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer’s mark. That would get people’s attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn’t capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he did give in, and she pulled the scenario– not that hard, since I have the key algorithm; there won’t be too many copies to track down–she would lose a little status, but that was a small price to pay for survival. And maybe not even that, she thought suddenly. Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario for Avellar’s Rebellion. No one could say I didn’t live up to the advertising then…

But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of black. One away. She copied the program and scenario again and pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she lean back a little, and reach into control space for the communications system.